


Tough

by escapethroughreading



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M, no death though, spot is depressed and race is a good boyfriend, tw self harm, very serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29222493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escapethroughreading/pseuds/escapethroughreading
Summary: Race helps Spot after he self harms.
Relationships: Race/Spot
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: SELF HARM  
> Please be careful!

TW: Self harm (please be careful)

SPOT’S POV:

Everyone knows I’m tough. My reputation is well known. I’m the king of Brooklyn. You mess with any of my boys, you’ll get a broken nose and a black eye. And if you mess with my boyfriend Race, your nose won’t be the only thing broken. I’m tough. That’s just the way it is. 

But it also means that I can’t show weakness. I have a reputation to uphold. Not just for me, but for others. When someone is under my protection, they’re safer. People think twice before messing with them. If I get soft, it puts others in danger. I can’t show just how broken I am.

No one sees the scars on my legs. They’re always hidden by pants. No one knows when I make new ones. No one sees the blades I use, hidden in my bathroom. No one sees the me that’s shattered. 

I draw the blade against my skin. Blood wells in the cut, dark red. I feel the pain, but it feels like a release. I make another cut, deeper than the last. Blood runs down my leg, a red line. I smudge it with my thumb. 

I make a third cut. A fourth. A fifth. Blood rolls down my leg like a waterfall. Crimson raindrops. The pain clears my head. It reminds me that I’m alive. The pain helps me survive. I once tried to count the scars on my legs. I lost count at thirty. I could have kept counting, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to know.

“Sorry Spot, I just need to grab my-” The door swings open. Why didn’t it lock? I always make sure it’s locked, why didn’t it lock? Race’s eyes widen. I push the blade behind me. I know it’s too late, but I still try to hide my wounds with my hands. Race runs over and kneels down in front of me.

“Spot, honey. What did you do?” He says softly. “You weren’t supposed to see this.” A tear rolls down my face. I’m not sure if it’s from anger or sadness. Maybe both. Race studies my cuts. His eyes take in the numerous scars littering my skin. “I’m going to clean you up, alright?” He stands up and grabs the first aid kit out of the bathroom cabinet.

He grabs the white towel from where it’s hanging on the hook. He wets it and wipes away the blood. “It’s going to stain the towel.” I say. My voice is quiet, barely audible. “It doesn’t matter. We can always get a new one.” Race continues to clean my wounds. 

Once he finishes that, he puts gauze on my cuts. He covers it with a white bandage to hold it in place. He silently re-packs the first aid kit and puts it back in the cabinet. “Where’s the blade?” I hesitate, but I know there’s no point in hiding. I hand it to him. The metal winks in the light, a last goodbye.

Race puts the blade in his pocket. “We need to talk, Spot. I know you don’t want to. But we need to.” He puts a hand on my arm, his blue eyes staring sadly at me. “I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to find out.” 

“I’m glad I did. This is dangerous.” I look down at the floor. I don’t know what to say, what to do. I never thought about what would happen if I was caught. “Where do you keep your blades?” Race asks. I point to the cabinet. “In the crack between the wall.” Race digs his finger in the crack between the cabinet and the wall. He pulls out the blades, placing them in his pocket with the rest. “Let’s get to bed, alright? We’ll talk more in the morning.”

He helps me up and walks me to the bedroom. “I’m so sorry I’m so broken.” I say softly. Race sits on the bed next to me. “Sometimes they repair broken glass with gold. It looks more beautiful than before, woven through with gold. Your cracks are what make you beautiful. And I’ll help you repair them.”

He should be running. Getting away from this mess, from me. He should be terrified of me. But he’s not. “Can you lay with me? Please?” Race nods, climbing into the bed next to me. I snuggle into him. He places an arm around me, holding me close. I’m safe here. I trust him.

I still haven’t told him about the blade I keep in my sock drawer.


	2. Chapter 2

TW: self harm (please be careful)

RACE’S POV:

When I wake up, the space next to me is empty. I immediately sit up, looking to see if Spot is somewhere in the room. When I see that he’s not, I run out, panic pulsing in my veins. He’s not in the living room, the kitchen, or my bedroom. The only place left is the bathroom. The one place I hoped he wouldn’t be.

I try the door, but it’s locked. “Spot? Spot, honey, please open the door?” No response. Then the lock clicks. The door swings open. I rush inside. Spot is sitting on the ground, blood running down his legs and pooling beneath him. He’s pale, too pale. The cuts are deep. 

I swear and grab a towel, pressing it to the wounds. The blade sits next to him. I grab it and throw it into the toilet, flushing it. “Race?” Spot’s voice is groggy. “Yeah, it’s me. Keep your eyes open.” I pull out my phone while still keeping pressure on the cuts. I dial 911 and ask for an ambulance. 

Ten minutes later paramedics flood the room. They push me out. Spot is wheeled past me on a stretcher. I follow them, climbing into the ambulance. Spot is still as stone. The paramedics scramble around him, attaching IVs and giving him shots. 

I have to wait in one of those plastic chairs at the hospital. I wait for an hour or so. It feels like longer. Everytime I look at the clock, the minute hand has only ticked once. When the doctor comes out and I’m led to Spot’s room, it feels like I’ve waited for eons.

Spot is laying in a hospital bed. He has an IV drip in his arm. He smiles at me, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Before I can think, I’m pouncing on him and wrapping him in a hug. “You scared the hell out of me.” I mumble into his neck. I pull away and look him over.

“I’m sorry. I- I needed to, I didn’t want to wake you or want you to know.” I grab his hand and squeeze it. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re alive.” I say it in a joking matter, but it’s not a joke at all. “I don’t know how to stop. It’s the only thing that reminds me I’m alive. It’s a release. It helps. I know I shouldn’t and I hate the scars, but I can’t stop. I can’t.”

Spot bites his lip and looks away from me. “We’re going to get you help. It’s going to get better.” Spot’s eyes meet mine. “You don’t have to stay. I don’t expect you to.” 

“I’m not going anywhere. I love you, Spot. Cracks and all. I’m going to be by your side, every step of the way. Promise."


End file.
